Reignite
by Ina-Hina
Summary: Fù isn't a fan of snakes nor politics yet she is born to a breeding ground for both. She shatters quietly; so softly and slowly that no one realises the mistake they made until the world is coated in a blistering blue. A SI OC who doesn't care to rewrite the story, yet rips a page out with each step she takes.
1. Ashen Cradle

**Because I am unoriginal af**

* * *

Her mother says her uncle named her for her grandfather. She worries it will be an awful feminisation, but instead it's thematic. Fùxīng; revival. Not the easiest to pronounce but it's soothing to the ear, so she forgives its tongue twisting nature. It's also incredibly on the nose, and she wonders if fate were truly so unfunny.

She can't remember much of the early days. Her days are spent indoors or being carted from one pair of arms to the next. She doesn't see her mother as often as she thought she would, and it irks her. The wet nurses are kind but impersonal, as all servants are.

She is royalty after all—it is a privilege to merely lay hands on Prince Ozai's firstborn.

Ozai is disgusted by her presence. She knows because she saw his face approximately three times before her first birthday. She doesn't mind since the feeling is mutual. Her mother minds greatly however and makes desperate attempts to reconcile them.

In that sense, she understands Ozai. He does not despise her specifically, but rather the concept of her. There is no passion when he looks down at her on their first meeting, simply cold contempt.

_"A girl?" _

Two simple words that conveyed everything that made up her parents' relationship. Ozai never hits her. He doesn't need to. Ursa caves in at the slightest nudging, and she wants to feel sorry for her mother but can't quite bring herself to care. Whether her mother admits it or not, she knows she wanted a son also. Anything to mitigate the disapproval of her husband and the court. As such, she learns early on to not rely on either of her parents.

She learns not to rely on anyone.

* * *

"Lady Fùxīng, it's time to return indoors." Her caretaker murmurs, bowing to the toddler.

Fù turns from the pond, crimson robes brushing against the water's edge in the same movement. She appraises her with steely golden eyes before nodding her acquiescence, following the older woman obediently.

"Lady Fùxīng, do you require anything?" She asks, as is customary.

"No," she replies quietly, still glancing back at the garden. It's the only place she feels at peace in this labyrinth of brimstone and fire. "Is Mother visiting?" It isn't a hopeful inquiry, nor did any excitement surface on her expression.

"I'm afraid not, milady." Her caretaker—she never bothered learning her name—is a tired young woman, body aged by a life of service. Fù feels sympathetic towards her plight and tries to remain well behaved mostly for her sake. "But His Highness did promise that if his schedule was to allow it, he may be able to bring Prince Lu Ten for a short while."

A small smile worms its way onto Fù's face. It is in equal parts mesmerising and terrorising. "Okay," is all she says, but it is obvious she is pleased.

Her uncle and cousin do indeed visit later that evening. When they enter, she's sat cross-legged on her bed, staring vacantly. Iroh knocks and her neck snaps towards them, amber eyes wide and sharp. He hates the suspicion that lingers on her face until she processes their presence. Then, her shoulders relax, and she waves them over wordlessly. Lu Ten dive bombs onto her bed, scooping her up in a tight hug. She squirms a little but otherwise lets him do as he pleases.

"Lu Ten," she mumbles in greeting, muffled by his arms.

"Fù! It's been _ages_!" It has actually been three days.

"Yes." She lifts herself off the bed and bows to Iroh, to his great discomfort. "Your Highness."

"Now is that any way to greet your favourite uncle?" He holds out his hands and she takes them tentatively. He lifts her up for a proper embrace, which she doesn't return but much like with Lu Ten does not reject it either. "How have you been, little blossom?"

"Good," she lies easily.

"Hey Fù, look what I got you!" Lu Ten demands her attention once more and Iroh gently lets her down to converse with her older cousin. "You like the turtle-ducks, right?" Lu Ten reaches into his robe and pulls out a delicately bound book, placing it in her small hands proudly. "It's a book!" He repeats the word slowly, and she blinks at him and then the bundle of parchment in her hands. "It's all about turtle-ducks. That way you can get ta know what they like to eat. If you feed 'em, they'll come to you for sure."

Fù hides her hands in her long sleeves, concealing the telltale bitemarks dotting her fingers.

Iroh chuckles and takes a seat on the floor beside them. An act not befitting a Crown Prince like himself, but perfectly appropriate as thei—_Lu Ten's_ father. He often wonders if his niece truly comprehends that the dark haired man who occasionally looms over her while she sits in the garden is her father. His little brother was not ready to have children and he is expressing it in the worst way possible. The pregnancy was hard on Ursa; he thinks she subconsciously blames Fùxīng for the new strain she feels from Ozai for not birthing a boy.

If she were a boy, perhaps it would be her parents here now and not he and Lu Ten as pale substitutions.

"Read it," she mumbles to her cousin, grasping his sleeve. Lu Ten grins widely and plops on the floor without further word. She settles in beside him after a moment, raven curls spilling onto his shoulder. He begins on command.

"The turtle-duck comes from the Fire Nation—that's where we are!—and can live up to thirty years. Ehhh, that's so long." He gives Iroh a hard look. "It's almost as old as _you_, Father."

Iroh pretends to be wounded, pressing his palm against his heart. "My own son, betraying me so! How could this be? What will become of our family?" He falls on his back, the sharp jab in his ribs forgotten when he hears a high-pitched giggle. He lifts his head to catch the ghost of a grin on his niece's face, cheeks tinged pink.

Then the door clicks open and the moment is shattered.

"Your Highness, I-I'm so sorry," and the woman is, so he forgives her for casting a long shadow across their faces, "but your presence has been requested b-by His Highness Fire Lord Azulon, may he reign supreme."

Lu Ten groans, asking if they _need_ to go. "Grandpa's such a stick in the mud," he grumbles, standing up. "We'll come again soon to make up for it, kay Fù?" He hugs her to his chest, squeezing tightly. "I'll even show you some of my super cool bending tricks." He winks, letting sparks fly from his prodigious fingers.

Iroh gives his own goodbyes (he doesn't like to make them long, since he always tells himself they'll be back so soon she'll forget they were even gone), and pats her on the head gently.

He's halfway out the door when she sniffles. He doesn't look back.

* * *

Iroh thinks the other reason Ozai dislikes his daughter, aside from her gender, is that on first glance they do not even appear related. There is no way she is not his—Ursa lives in a tightly locked gilded cage. But, he knows she has her uses. Should something happen to his Lu Ten (and he should perish the very thought) then Fùxīng is his ticket to the throne. He won't hurt her. Yet, even knowing that, Iroh shuffles over to the children cartwheeling in the garden, gathering Lu Ten under his arm. She was finally beginning to get a hang of the handstand too.

And he almost reaches for her, but suddenly she's miles from them and too incorporeal to grasp. She does not even glance Ozai's way until he stamps his boot against the ground. Let no one say the aloof princess is a coward, because Fùxīng gazes up at the Prince through her undone hair as if he is less than the dirt beneath her shoe. Quiet contempt, which Iroh has never quite seen so perfectly captured on someone only in their second year of life.

"Brother, I'd no idea you would be gracing us with yours and the young Lu Ten's presence." He makes a grandiose gesture of bowing and then gestures to the door. "However, tonight I would like to spend some time with the Lady Fùxīng." So distant, as if she were some political ward rather than his flesh and blood.

Fùxīng smiles crudely up at Ozai as they turn to leave and Iroh sighs.

Yes, that smile is how he knows she is made up of the same stuffs as them.

And he forever regrets not listening to that telltale sniffle or examining her 'turtleduck bites' more closely.

Truthfully, she doesn't even like turtleducks.

Ursa's home when they visit next, some days after Ozai's interruption. Iroh is only half a step through the doorway before he's shoving Lu Ten behind him and into the hallway.

"Fùxīng isn't feeling well so she won't want to play," he tells him gently, kneeling down to rub his head. "You know how you get when you're sick."

Lu Ten nods tentatively—he is positively rotten when under the weather. He has more energy than he can burn, leading to the worst sort of cabin fever.

"But, we don't have to play," the boy scuffs the floor with his shoes, but seemingly knows that he will not be granted entry regardless. "Fù doesn't have anyone else to talk to. . . Uncle Ozai an' Auntie Ursa aren't here as much as us."

Iroh cringes but doesn't disagree. "I know, but I think it's best if you run along. Ask Wuzhang to take you back."

His son agrees, albeit reluctantly.

Iroh takes a deep breath and steps forward. Ursa hums a greeting absentmindedly as she combs through Fùxīng's cindered hair.

"What happened, sister?" He asks, resisting the urge to simply bat away her hands from his niece. "Did she awaken her bending?" It's hopeful, and not impossible; Iroh remembers his first experience with fire with little fondness.

Ursa doesn't answer, eyes glazed over and seemingly counting each tug of her hair. Fùxīng sits equally silent but her eyes are sharp, staring at her hands with frightening intensity.

"Answer me, Ursa."

He's never raised his voice against his sister-in-law before, because she is oh so young and he feels for her having given birth at her age but—

"Uncle."

Iroh pounces on this last tether to reality like a lifeline. He crouches in front of her, edging back when Ursa tenses. He's never been sure of her relationship with her daughter. It was as if a part of her despised this bundle of oversized robes and tight lipped smiles for locking her in an even smaller cage, yet a voice cried for her to protect her from everything and everyone.

Even herself.

"Yes, Fù?" He knows she likes that more than Fùxīng. He wonders if he's the only one.

Her gaze captures his and his soul is inspected from head to toe. He isn't sure if she finds what she's looking for but she smiles for only the briefest of moments before resuming her neutral, deadpanned expression.

She says nothing.

"We're fine, Iroh," Ursa's words are both strained and clipped and she looks to the door with increasing fervour.

"Ursa, she doesn't look fi—"

"Leave." Her voice is low and dangerous but her hands tremble. "Please. Don't give her hope," she whispers after. "I don't want her to be disappointed when she grows up and realises what this world is like."

Iroh briefly remembers that Ursa has only just celebrated her nineteenth year.

Fù toys with her hair, giving it a derisive sniff. She doesn't look at Iroh as his shoulders slump and he trudges outside the room.

Everyone gives up eventually, she thinks. _But it was nice while it lasted,_ her heart mumbles.

* * *

The next time Iroh is face to face with his niece is when she's three and presented to the Court. She's still a small girl, and her physique hovers between slim and unnaturally thin. Lu Ten does not even recognise her until her name is called. He buzzes in his seat beside him, clearly resisting the urge to run to her. Iroh feels the same but he wouldn't class his feeling as excited.

Instead he diverts his attention to the figure seated behind the wall of flames lining the back of the room.

Fùxīng does not look bothered by the attention and whispers direct towards her as she steps, alone, to the scorching steps.

"Firelord Azulon." Her voice is remarkably clear and pierces any noise in the hall. All eyes on her, she steps back and bows. "Grandfather." The room erupts into harsher whispers when Azulon does not answer. She turns to them, a mirthless grin planted across her face. "His Highness can't hear you. Speak up."

If she had not been Ozai's daughter and had Iroh not glared at all those with heated palms at the table, perhaps her story would have ended there and then.

It's silent then, and Ozai looks beyond his boiling point. If it had been up to him, she would have been thrown by the wayside as soon as she were birthed. But his mother had been alive then and while Azulon had many vices he indulged his queen as often as his pride allowed.

Maybe it's because of that Azulon does not strike her down and instead lets the fire lick her sleeves instead. "And what makes you so certain I am your grandfather?" His voice borders on a growl and is meant to scare, to intimidate.

_What makes you worthy?_

Lu Ten had never had to answer; he was the heir, so of course he was worthy.

What could poor, small Fùxīng do? He sees her hands shake underneath her cuffs. This was cruel—a child's entry to Court was never joyous, but strong nobility had always been valued in their society. Why was Fù cursed so? Yet it is now she smiles and Iroh notices her shaking fingers point directly at the Fire Lord.

"Because," and a fire pillar diminishes to but an ember, "I am strong," her eyes shine golden as she takes in the room around her.

In its place, a jet of blue flame faces Azulon. Ozai jolts, expression torn between awe and thunderous. She hid this from him.

Lu Ten is the one to break the tense silence that follows by rising from his seat and simply whooping.

"Did you see that?! I've never seen _blue_ fire before."

No one has; it's this shock that keeps Lu Ten from being disciplined for his outburst.

Azulon laughs then. It is deep and raspy but lacked the underlying murderous intent it had carried before. "If you insist. Welcome, Fùxīng. My granddaughter."

Beneath the painted lips and her white face, Iroh sees something akin to triumph when she gazes back at Ozai. They both know she's won their war; he could never be rid of her without consequence now that Azulon favours her.

She looks at him too, once. She tilts her head to the side and then nods in apparent appreciation.

_'Uncle'_ it is then.

He would be useful.


	2. Side Burnt

**Thank y'all for the reviews and follows. I really appreciate it. This is definitely just a personal project of mine so I'm not sure about chapter length and upload frequency but do know I am passionate about what I am writing. Thank you!**

Nobody knows how Fù found out about Admiral Jeong Jeong's existence but not a day goes by where she is not seen crouching after his coattails. The Princess—because Azulon calls her as such, so a Princess she is now—refuses any other instructor for bending. Jeong Jeong is in a high enough position wherein he can reject her through his ignorance but her persistence surprises all who knew her before her introduction to the Court.

"It's like she woke up," an old caretaker murmurs to one of the newer maids, eyes both uneasy and fond as she watches the Princess watch Jeong Jeong from her perch on the windowsill. In his defence, he takes it well, and never raises his voice to her.

"Eh, what do you mean Mahna?" Katir asks, frowning as she spots a stitch come undone in Fùxīng's robe when she flings herself across the room to land on the poor admiral's back. "Was Her Highness sickly when she was younger?" Katir lets herself smile; no wonder Fù enjoys herself so then.

Mahna grits her teeth, peering for any troublesome eyes and ears. "I suppose you could say that." She raises her head and waves a dismissive hand. "Bah, it matters not now."

And they go back to cleaning, hiding their giggles as Jeong Jeong walks by, arms looped around Fùxīng's legs.

"If only to prevent you from burning the palace down," he grunts and Mahna swallows her laugh.

"Having a father like _His Highness_, you'd think the general would know better than to think he could win." Katir thinks nothing of the comment but Mahna's shoulders slump.

"You take the rest of the day off," she quickly tells the younger woman. "The baby won't like you working yourself to the bone." She swipes her threadwork from her. "I'll take care of everything, don't worry."

Katir skips away gaily, one hand on her swollen stomach.

Mahna promised she wouldn't cry this time but when a new Katir arrives in the kitchen the next morning she hides herself in piles of bloody laundry until noon when the steam evaporated every last wet patch from her cheeks.

* * *

"How is she progressing?" Iroh looks from their pai cho board to the two children sparring several feet away.

Jeong Jeong sighs. "Infuriatingly well." The general curses under his breath but Iroh smiles knowingly. Fùxīng was Jeong Jeong's pride and joy; anyone with working eyes could see such but no one with a mouth could comment lest they incur his wrath.

"She must be to be keeping up with Lu Ten." The boy is holding back, but with one hand behind his back he still has to work for his victory, which says enough about his cousin. "Any theories yet?" He asks, gesturing to the puff of blue flame sparking from her fingertips.

"Many theories, none plausible." Jeong Jeong pushes away the board, having long accepted defeat. "Perhaps she is possessed by a spirit," he waved his hand haphazardly, scepticism marring the poetic thought, "or perhaps it is simply a twist of fate."

Iroh laughs heartily this time, drawing the attention of the young ones. "A rather lucky one for you, old friend." Jeong Jeong gulps his tea, remaining pointedly silent as the two children approach them.

"I won," Fùxīng intones seriously. Her hands still shimmer blue as she folds them in front of her, juxtaposed against her golden eyes. "Master, did I do well?" Once actually gaining his attention, Jeong Jeong discovers she is a dutiful, quiet student, though often worries of her attachment to him. None of his students have ever been so young, yet with the Fire Lord's approval there is little he can do but distance himself in their lessons.

"Yep, she sure did," Lu Ten interrupts his thoughts, patting her head. Another of his thrown bouts, then. "How was I, Dad?"

"Excellent, your footwork is improving," Iroh lies smoothly, honestly not catching the fight in its entirety. Jeong Jeong is mute under the expecting stare of the Princess but he eventually sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Acceptable. You require more ferocity, however." He clenches his fist in front of her, extinguishing his own flames. "Do not give your foe hope of mercy."

"But—" Jeong Jeong is surprised when she begins to retort, "fire-firebending isn't…" She trails off, but Jeong Jeong never hears the end of her sentence. "Yes, Master." She only bows then, expression disappointed somehow.

The admiral frowns; she is never usually so moved by criticism.

"Ah, Master Jeong Jeong here you are."

Fùxīng freezes up and skirts behind Iroh, expression clouding over with mistrust. Neither adult is concerned; royal children are taught to mistrust all and it is that lesson that keeps them alive. Especially when it comes to Jeong Jeong's least favourite pupil.

"Zhao, show some respect," the admiral commands, gesturing to their company. "You are in the presence of the two heirs apparent and the Princess."

Zhao's eyes twitch as he realises his mistake as he instantly plummets to the ground. "My humblest apologies, Prince Iroh, Prince Lu Ten," his lips curl, "Lady Fùxīng."

Iroh takes a deep breath, rising to his full stature. "Prince Lu Ten and _Princess_ Fùxīng are in the midst of training. I'd hope you have a good reason to disturb us." Fùxīng stares at him intently, though one might think she knew no other method.

Zhao gulps; Jeong Jeong isn't defending him.

"I beg forgiveness, Your Highness. General Tan had requested Admiral Jeong Jeong's presence to discuss our impending passage through the Dai Chao Channel." Jeong Jeong gives an obvious sigh and Zhao smirks. "He insisted."

Iroh cracks an amused smile when his niece shuffles to block the Admiral's exit, cheeks flushed. "Admiral Jeong Jeong has important things to do, lotus blossom." He gestures for her to return to his side and she does so reluctantly when the aforementioned man nudges her along. She stops in front of Zhao long enough to light his right side burn on fire, and Lu Ten dissolves into a bundle of guffaws entirely undignified for the future Fire Lord.

Zhao freezes before hastily attempting to retrieve the flames to his own palm. Her fire requires an extra snap of the wrist to put out; royal academics itch to examine her fire in an intimate manner. He's close to her face from his kneeling position, and his greasy smile clogs her skin. He can't say anything to her though, and she revels in it.

Complete and utter control.

"Her Highness is proficient with her bending. Truly a testament to your teachings, Master Jeong Jeong."

Jeong Jeong scoffs. "Princess, discipline."

"Ferocity," she replies with a cock of her head. "Which one?"

He raps his knuckles against her forehead gently. "Both." And he proceeds to scorch the rest of Zhao's facial hair. The man's jaw locks and his face pales as he waits for the pain to set in. It doesn't. "You understand?" She doesn't but she nods regardless. "And this is punishment for your lack of manners, Zhao. Be grateful His Highness is more gracious than I." He huffs. "Should he have wished to brand your tongue I would have

Iroh wants to snort; he's only mad because of the way Zhao's palms ashed the ground beneath them when Fùxīng passed him.

No one utters a word until Lu Ten tugs at his father's sleeve. "Is it my turn next, Father?" Iroh is tempted to say yes.

Needless to say, Zhao remembers his first meeting with the Fire Nation's royal doll.

* * *

Ozai interrupts her daily breathing exercises occasionally, if he's in a particularly bitter mood. It is almost funny to Fùxīng; his torment is incessant but at least she sees him. She hasn't sighted Ursa for at least several months, though apparently she was doing much better without her daughter's parasitic presence. The guards patrolled the garden in pockets they think she doesn't notice until he makes himself known.

"Good morning, Fùxīng," he greets her cordially, stepping into her inner sanctum.

"My lord," she replies with equal civility, making no move to progress the conversation further.

_Breathe in until the sun's warmth fills you_, she chants.

"I suppose you've no time for your own father now you have sought your validation elsewhere."

_And when your lungs tighten, exhale through your fingertips…_

"Not that you're worthy of being my daughter regardless."

He circles her now; she hears it rather than sees it. Fear simmers beneath her nails, threatening to both cool and combust the small ember she's nurturing. But she can overcome it—she can overcome anything.

"You think that fool Jeong Jeong cares for you?" He sneers. "It took you grovelling at his feet for him to even give you an inch." The more protective of her guards—Sanjiro and Monoke mostly—begin to tighten their formation.

"He has made me strong," is all she says, nails cutting into her palms.

"You've not an inkling of what it means to be strong, _girl_." He steps forward and looms over her small frame, heat rolling off his skin in waves. "Your parlour tricks have amused your grandfather, but not me."

"And since when did your opinion supersede his?" The leaf in her hands crumbles to ash, but she doesn't remember setting it alight.

He grabs her by the chin and Sanjiro steps forward, only to be held in place Monoke, who shakes her head sadly.

"Why don't I show you how fragile you really are?"

She understands why they don't interfere. Even afterwards, when she's slumped over and hanging her neck limply, she can process Ozai demanding they not move to help her as he leaves. If she were normal, she would obey him too.

_Yet here we are._

_At least he cauterised it_, she thinks blearily. He is trying to break more than her limbs. A pity it won't work.

She likes to win; breaking her leg doesn't matter nearly as much as getting the blue ribbon in the race.

And she will crush her father, if for no other reason than the rush of adrenaline she knows she'll feel when his windpipe is crushed beneath her heel.

Jeong Jeong finds her, initially setting out to scold her for being so late for their afternoon exercises. He says not a word, but she thinks she sees one of the guard's body drop to the floor with a low thud. He's angry as he lifts her into his arms and the remaining guards have to stamp out a grassfire when he leaves. And she looks up at him, his greying moustache the only image she can manage to focus on. She wants to apologise. If she hadn't forced him to spoon feed her firebending basics, maybe he wouldn't feel obligated to take her injury so personally. He frowns down at her, and it seemingly confirms her suspicions.

She's sorry for being weak.

Sorry for not having enough ferocity.

For thinking she can rely on her guards.

Forgetting she can't rely on anyone.

Maybe she really just wants to apologise to herself.

"Sleep, young one," he says, uncharacteristically gentle as he rubs her uninjured shoulder.

She hates it. She doesn't even have the strength to recoil from his touch as the world darkens around her. The last sound she's privy to is the slam of a door and an outraged roar.

.

..

…

….

Fùxīng is six when she loses most feeling in her hands. Her right shoulder is mendable, but it never twists the same way. In fact, the physician is surprised she can even lift her teacup.

Ozai thinks it means her life as a bender is crippled.

To her, it's simply another obstacle removed; pain is a powerful distraction after all.

* * *

"And what is it you are asking me, Iroh, exactly?"

"I ask nothing, Father, but humbly plead," Iroh bows to Azulon, a rare gesture seen between father and son, "that this sort of incident be prevented in the future."

The Fire Lord strokes his beard, gazing down at his first born thoughtfully. Iroh has always held his favour, being so remarkably like his late wife. Ozai, on the other hand, is the spitting image of him.

All the more reason he knows he is behind the attack on Fùxīng.

"So what do you suggest I do to reprimand him, my son?"

Iroh stares him down now, with steely eyes. Becoming a father had changed him in so many ways. Sometimes, Azulon wondered if Lu Ten softened him. Instead, it appears as if he only strengthens his resolve.

Because Iroh looks at his niece's permanently gloved hands and her shallow breaths and can only see Lu Ten. Iroh is a man of war and would likely be venturing back to conquest soon. Without Lu Ten.

If Ozai ever laid a _hand _on his boy…

"A warning would suffice, Father. I would never wish ill against one of our own." Which is true, though this is the closest he's ever come.

Azulon nods once. "Consider your request granted, Iroh."

It had been such a long time since he'd been to an Agni Kai anyway.


	3. Meet at Sunset

"Mother, that hurts."

Ursa combs through her daughter's hair regardless. She doesn't get to do much else these days. "Stop fidgeting. Your hair's all knotted." She presses her lips against the crown of her forehead.

"Then I'll cut it."

"Don't be silly," she admonishes lightly, tugging through one particularly feral curl. "We have to look good today." Her hands tremble as she repeats the statement in her head. Yes, they must be perfect today. "Your grandfather once told me you remind him of your grandmother." He hadn't but Ursa sees the resemblance all the same. Azulon would too by the time she is through with her.

For this is the only way she can hope to protect her daughter. Iroh would teach her to play pai cho as if she were commanding warships and Jeong Jeong would arm her to the teeth but they could never hope to learn the ways of Court. As conquerors they had no need. Fù's hair will be tucked and her insignia will hang from her kanzashi delicately. Fùxīng already carries herself with the pride of a royal lady—one simultaneously capable of great kindness and immeasurable cruelty, which is precisely how Ursa remembers her mother-in-law. All she needs are the finishing touches. Her golden eyes study her from the mirror, and Ursa forces herself to not meet their gaze.

"How do your hands feel today, sweetie?"

"They don't."

Ursa winces. "Well, I had Miss Eula make up some new gloves for you, so I hope you like them." She's stumbling over her words now, keenly aware of how out of her depth she is.

"Thank you."

Helping her dress is unfamiliar as always and Ursa represses a violent shudder when she comes face-to-face with the scarred skin running up and down her arms. While both hands are permanently varying shades of pink and red, it extends further up her right arm, ending just past her shoulder. It is still fresh and puffy, and though she tries to hide it, Ursa knows Fù is in pain every time her robes rub against it. Hence, the gloves. Much like her wounds, they vary in length, from wrist length to extending all up her forearm. Bandaging covers what the fabric cannot. Ursa has half a mind to adjust her outfit to reveal as such, but the consequences would be too severe.

For now, at least.

"You look so pretty dear."

Guards arrive to escort them to the arena and Ursa greets them brightly, Fùxīng's wrist held tightly. She is her daughter and Ursa has finally learnt what that means.

"Where are we going?" Fù raises an eyebrow at her, and the impassivity of her features suggest she already knows.

"We're going to a special event. It might be a bit boring for you, so I brought a book just in case." When she withdraws it from her robes the small girl leaps for it like a dog for a bone, and Ursa giggles goodnaturedly when she lets the tome plop into her greedy hands. "You can keep it, dear. My mother gave this book to me, and her father before her." Fùxīng peers up at her curiously then, golden eyes curved in a strange mixture of cautious joy and fear.

"I'll take good care of it," she promises, features set in that cutely determined expression of hers.

"I'm sure you will." Ursa lets her arm swoop around her daughter's shoulders and keeps their bodies close as they stroll through the drawn curtains. A hush falls amongst the crowd and she refuses to give into the urge to fix her hair. Instead, she smiles and tightens her grip on Fùxīng.

She may be too late to be a mother to Fù. That is quite fine, and she deserves her resentment. But it isn't too late to be her guardian. No more hiding and bowing, she thinks, fingers rubbing against the small vial in her sleeve.

It is time Ozai understands just who he married.

* * *

Iroh stands upright when Ursa and Fùxīng enter—the guest of honour, so to speak. The Crown Prince bows deeply and offers his hand to the Duchess. The rest of the assembly has no choice but to follow suit. Lu Ten tails behind him, immediately latching onto his younger cousin as soon as formalities had concluded. He's become protective of her in a way he never has been; the last time he saw her she was bedridden and her eyes were hazy and half-lidded.

What a world they have condemned their children to, Iroh ponders solemnly.

They take their seats at the head of the arena, front and centre. Ursa on one side of the princess, Lu Ten on the other. He sits forward determinedly, one hand on his cousin's knee. Fùxīng's head darts around and her eyes scan the crowd obsessively. Iroh sighs, knowing who she's looking for. He wonders what Ursa is thinking, bringing her along. Maybe she has really gone mad, like Ozai claims.

It is already quiet in the rows around them, but a hushed silence falls upon the audience. Fire Lord Azulon announces his presence quietly; it's all that is needed.

"You understand why we sit here today," he begins gravely. "A great disrespect to a trusted member of my counsel has gone unanswered before now." He clicks his tongue. "So today, I have given him a chance to right the wrong against him."

Azulon sits back, almost languid. Iroh has an awful feeling his father will enjoy this more than planned.

"But first, his opponent."

And out walks Ozai, proud and confident but wary. He's been told nothing but to prepare to fight for his honour. The crowd usually cheers at this point, but the deathly silence only echoes loudly about the arena. Fùxīng is interested now and leans forward. Ozai takes first position and faces from whence he came, Agni Kai vest still on his back.

Then, the curtains on the opposite end of the room draw back and out steps Jeong Jeong and Iroh watches Fùxīng catch her breath. The bearded man's eyes lock onto Ozai, tranquil fury and determination dancing across them. The rows above them buzz as enthusiastically as they think they're allowed—Jeong Jeong is a more popular choice than Ozai and the crowd is already on his side.

"Why's he..?" The princess can't finish her sentence, but Iroh watches as realisation dawns on her (and he should be surprised she understands, but he really isn't).

"When I say close your eyes, you close your eyes okay?" Ursa says in a hushed voice, squeezing her left shoulder. She nods but her gaze remains transfixed on her teacher's form. "Did you have a look at the book I gave you?" She presses as Jeong Jeong takes first position.

"Later," she whispers.

Ursa clasps her hands together, resisting the urge to fidget. That would be a sign of weakness, and if Ozai simply turns his head to the right he would see her.

And when he does, she wants him to _enraged_.

A guardsman approaches the arena and holds up his hand. The arena stills.

"You are aware of our customs. You will fight until you yield or Firelord Azulon in his wisdom sees fit," he says, voice strong and clear amidst the tense atmosphere. "On my mark," one, two… "Begin!"

Ozai is only allowed half a second to process just who his opponent is before Jeong Jeong begins his onslaught. He encircles Ozai in flame, bringing his hands together to tighten its grip on him. Ozai growls and tears through them, immediately lunging for the older man. Jeong Jeong swiftly sidesteps him and brings a closed fist down on his back. Ozai drops on all fours to absorb the blow and kicks up, a stream of fire following in his wake. Jeong Jeong hisses but parries rather than dodges and grasps the prince's foot.

Ozai opens his mouth in a silent scream as the sole of his foot is burnt and Iroh is unsure whether that or the upward turn of Fùxīng's lips is more disturbing.

It immediately dissipates as her father twists in Jeong Jeong's grip and uppercuts his jaw with a fiery fist. He jumps away, using a wall of flame as cover. He falls to his knees and presses on his neck, cursing under his breath.

Ursa's hands move to cover her eyes but they are shoved away. Fùxīng's eyes are glued to her master.

Ozai then swaggers forward despite his limp, a vicious snarl on his lips. "Yield!" He growls and it turns into a howl when Jeong Jeong stares mutely, still bent at the knee. "This is what you deserve, you old fool."

He raises his hand and even Iroh stifles a breath at the intense heat now pulsing in the air. He looks to the children worriedly, and while Lu Ten sweat he is none worse for wear. Fù's skin is also clammy but Ursa keeps one eye on her, brushing the back of her hand against her cheek. When she does not react further, he relaxes.

In the meantime, Ozai's temper reaches boiling point. Jeong Jeong sits in a meditative pose right before his eyes, his own shut in silent contemplation. His hands are sheathed in blades of fire and he snorts steam before looking to the Fire Lord.

"End this, or I will end him," he promises.

Azulon smirks. "Please do," he replies breezily.

If Ozai was calmer, he may have taken caution at his father's nonchalance. Jeong Jeong is physically strong but he is also a fearsome tactician. Losing him would be a grave misstep for the Fire Nation's military strength.

And Azulon only participates in calculated losses.

"Here is the fate your Fire Lord condemned you to!" Ozai booms, striking down at the older man.

Jeong Jeong opens his eyes.

In one deft motion he flips backwards, kicking his leg up as he did so, redirecting Ozai's blow to his own face. The shriek resounds through the palace and the prince falls back, head in hands.

Iroh never admits this to himself, but Fù's smile when she spots the fresh burn covering her father's left eye is near feral.

Azulon waves his hand dismissively, and the match is called, Ozai escorted off stage by a trembling medic.

Only then does Jeong Jeong address the crowd, bowing astutely to Azulon and approaching the side where Fù sat.

"I fought today for our Princess," he announces, and there's a low rumble through the crowd. Most did not know of Fù's _incident_ but all knew of Ozai's intense distaste for his first born. "Your Highness, I hope you are satisfied in this restoration of your honour."

No one expects her to respond, but she stands after a moment, peering at Jeong Jeong's neck. His expression is stern but the warmth she craves simmers beneath. "Thank you, Admiral," she hums. "I hope you serve me as well in the future." There's a cheeky undertone to the statement; Jeong Jeong is still her Master, and yet he cannot argue in an official setting.

The twitch of his moustache said it all; she has guaranteed herself an extra half an hour of cardio in training.

Yet, the equally guilty upward twitch of his lips makes it all worth it.

* * *

Azulon greets them after the bout, paying his first visit to Fù's quarters since her birth. Ursa struggles to compose herself readily, unsure whether to throw herself to the floor or stand straight. Fùxing herself appears unconcerned, focusing on her book instead.

"Granddaughter, did the bout today please you?" The Fire Lord asks, looming over her.

"It did," she answers shortly and the man chuckles lowly.

"I can't believe Ozai ever thought you weren't his daughter," he says, shaking his head. Ursa freezes in place, tittering awkwardly.

Fù raises an eyebrow. "He's my father?" She asks, nose still buried in her book.

Azulon would have reprimanded another brat for such behaviour, and he should have done so with Fùxing as well.

But she looks so much like his A'isha with her hair tucked in like that, and Azulon's last great weakness _was_ his Queen. So, instead, Azulon kneels down to her level and peeks at her reading material. It is far beyond the expectations of her age. If Ozai did not have the temperament of a stubborn mule, he would have realised that Ursa had already given birth to the prophecy. Azulon is not so foolish as to waste such blessings.

"Child, accompany me," he says gruffly and she glances his way. "I have questions to ask of you," he adds, and she hums for a moment as if considering her own grandfather is worth her time and gets to her feet. Ursa remains like a deer in headlights, not moving an inch until they have left, Azulon putting a careful hand at Fù's back.

The Duchess crumples in on herself, still clutching her daughter's hairbrush.

"What did you want to ask, Grandfather?" Fùxing asks as they stride across the palace grounds.

Azulon strokes his beard for a long moment.

"Tell me child, has anyone explained what an Avatar is to you?"

She grins from ear to ear and shakes her head.


End file.
